


A Kiss Is Still A Kiss

by Historical_Muse



Category: Still Crazy (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, merry pranksters can be useful...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss Is Still A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this fic belong to writers Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais, and actors Jimmy Nail and Bill Nighy – with a little Timothy Spall thrown in.
> 
> Beta: The ever patient Rosie.

~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~* 

It was a hot, sticky night.

And Les wasn’t in the best of moods.

English summers were notoriously fickle and in general, the fields of Albion were rarely bathed in blistering sunshine and sweltering temperatures.

Unfortunately, this _was_ one of those summers...

Travelling from gig to gig in Hughie’s beloved ‘land yacht’ in summertime was bearable when the air conditioning was working and the standard aromatic combination of cigarettes, alcohol, exotic cheroots, sweat, perfume  (Luke’s endearing penchant for patchouli oil was nice, but not in confined spaces...)-  and the after-effects of much macho posturing on the lines of “I-can-eat-a-much-hotter-curry-than-you-can-oh-no-you-can’t-oh-yes-I-can” in late-night curry houses was being effortlessly sent on its way to work its magic on the Greenhouse Effect.

But tonight the air-conditioning _wasn’t_ working and the only way Les could escape was by closing his eyes and hoping to drift off into sweet oblivion until they reached whatever hell-hole they’d be staying in that night.  His slumber was fitful and full of strange, surreal dreams – but it was a hell of a lot better than trying to compete with the smoke and the noise and the toxic smells from further down the coach.

* * * * * * * *

He had just woken from a confused dream about Carol Vorderman, a can of whipped cream and half a pound of kippers when he realised that it had gone preternaturally quiet on the bus.  Les managed to raise himself off his bunk sufficiently to peer with sleep-filled eyes down the length of the coach and saw that the rest of the band and the roadies were fast asleep, finally worn down by the effects of exhaustion, heat, booze, adrenaline drainage, and marijuana.  A mellifluous chorus of snores attested to the state of his companions, although he found it hard to believe that _some_ of the sounds he was hearing could actually be made by human beings.  All that was needed now was a running commentary in a hushed quasi _-_ whisper from Sir David Attenborough, saying how peaceful they looked in their natural habitat.

“’Bout bloody time,” Les mumbled to himself as he settled down to sleep again, idly wondering why it was he hadn’t seen Ray amongst the others.

He thumped his pillow savagely.  It didn’t seem right that the bastards had not seemed to notice the heat that had forced him into vest and y-fronts in an effort to escape the humid night, sweat still trickling down his chest, back, arms, groin, and thighs regardless. 

* * * * * * * *

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but something had yet again woken him from his slumbers.  Only just succeeding in even partly opening his eyes, Les could see that Hughie had turned off all but a few of the lights on the coach and they were now in semi-darkness.  All seemed quiet and peaceful, and he couldn’t work out what had woken him.  Sighing, Les snuggled down again, wishing the temperature would drop even a little.

And then he felt it again.

Someone was stroking his inner thigh, the circular movement of the fingers lightly brushing over his cock and balls as they did so.

Still unsure if he was still in a state of semi-consciousness, Les turned over – but the hand continued to stroke him.  Was he then touching _himself_ he wondered, reaching down to find out.

But no.  It _wasn't_ his hand – he could account for both of his, so who the hell did _this_ one belong to?

He opened his eyes and tried to make sense of the shapes in the gloom.  And then his heart leaped.  He could see very little, but what he _could_ see was a head, features hidden because the figure was standing with its back to what light there was on the coach.  And that light showed Les a cloud of fine, blonde hair.

“What the fuck...?”

“Les?”

It couldn’t be – _Ray_?

“What’s going on?  Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing _wrong_ at all – quite the opposite in fact.”

Warm hands suddenly cupped Les’s face.  Les’s cock leapt in unison with his heart.  Oh god, it was what he’d always dreamed of!

_< But please god, don’t let this be a dream...>_

“Ray?  I – I never realised you knew...”

A soft chuckle.  “Of _course_ I knew.  I’ve _always_ known.”

“Oh god, Ray...”

Les reached up and buried his fingers in soft hair, pulling down the eager mouth to his own.  Melding his lips to those of his unexpected visitor, Les opened his mouth and let his mouth be plundered shamelessly by an enthusiastic tongue that battled fiercely with his own.  Caressing the warm skin and smooth strands of fine hair, Les revelled in the sensations of something he’d desired so often and for so long...

...Until his lust-fogged brain slowly began to register the fact that something didn’t seem right.  Surely Ray’s hair wasn’t _that_ long...and...oh shit...that wasn’t stubble and Ray _definitely_ didn’t have any facial hair...

A sudden appalling, horrific suspicion hit him.

“WHAT THE _FUCK_...!”

Immediately the lights in the coach snapped on, flooding Les’s bunk with clarity and revealing to him the full awfulness of his situation.  Behind him, the others were guffawing with school-boyish glee – and above him...oh, god...  Above him was Beano.

Beano took in Les’s dismayed expression and gave a cheerful shrug.  “Those buggers put me up to it,” he explained, jerking a grubby thumb behind him.  “No need to take it personal, like...”

 

* * * * * * * *

By the time Les had finished bawling out the rest of the band and the road crew to his satisfaction, they did at least have the decency to look ashamed of themselves.  Beano, as ever, didn’t seem _entirely_ repentant, but knowing him of old Les knew that beneath that loutish exterior the portly drummer was definitely chastened.

As he made his way back to his bunk, he suddenly noticed a familiar figure, golden hair glowing in the muted light and sunglasses on despite the darkness, reclining across two of the coach seats.  With a jolt of embarrassment he realised that Ray must have been sitting there all along – must’ve been aware of _everything_...  Oh _shit_...

“Ray...mate...”  Les leaned across and cautiously put his hand on Ray’s broad shoulder.  He made ineffectual gestures of mortification.  “I don’t know what to say, like...”  Oh Jesus, he’d never felt so humiliated in all his born days.  “I’m really sorry, man,” he finished lamely.

He expected Ray to flinch away from him, to look at him with disgust.  He knew that Ray hadn’t exactly been averse to homosexual experiences, but knowing how their relationship still wasn’t exactly the friendliest in town he felt certain Ray would treat him with icy disdain – would dismiss him coldly and they’d be back to square one.

“Ray...like I say, sorry, man...”

For a moment, there was silence – then Ray raised his sunglasses...and almost blew Les away with the darkness in his eyes and the heat of his deliciously crooked smile.  And when he spoke, Ray’s voice was all shadows and promise, deep and low and as delicious as chocolate.

“Don’t worry...”  Ray replaced the sunglasses with effortless elegance.  “I’ll help you make it up to me later...”

 

~~~~~~~finis~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written in the late 90s/early 00s.


End file.
